The Sketches of Writing
by Invaderk
Summary: Sometimes you might just want to give up and throw everything away, but even the rejects have a place in which to shine. Join me as I analyze and otherwise tear apart fan fiction as I know it.
1. Main

**The Sketches of Writing **

_A learning experience presented by Invaderk_

_-_

Sometimes, as most ammeter writers like myself know, writing is NOT easy, to say the very least. Sometimes I just want to write a totally easy way out dialogue, but that would be cheating my readers out of what they deserve, which is solid, effort-induced writing. I'm not dissing the dialogue-based stories at all, because I'm not talking about normal dialogue-based stories.

For instance, _Blinded by the Light 2_ was really forced and evil. If I had done it the way I wanted to most of the time, it would have come out something like this:

-

Ron: I'm blind!

Hermione: I'm over-worried and going to let Ron risk his life. Yay!

Ron: Need to see. Get potion now. I don't care who makes it.

Snape: Hi.

Ron: OMG NUU!

Malfoy: Too bad. Drink this. You'll just pass out but don't worry, you'll be able to see me again. Then I get to make my dramatic exit and you get to see Hermione in a towel.

Ron: Yay!

The end.

-

Needless to say, it doesn't work quite like that. A lot of the time I'd just love to write a big "OMG" over a section like an artist may do for a sketch, but writing doesn't quite work like that. It's all or nothing… or, in some cases, a crappy work or improvising.

If I wrote things the way I thought them most of the time, it might come out a little like this (in no particular order, of course):

-

Harry: Help me, my tortured teenage soul is drowning me in a puddle of sorrowful sorrow.

Ron: I am a sap – a proud sap.

Hermione: Shut up, Ron – don't you feel the love?

Lavender: I'm a jerk.

Lily: Snape's an arse.

James: I died, lol.

Malfoy: I'm a rich snob and I like to pick on people less fortunate than me.

Lucius: My snakey cane can beat up your snakey cane, yo.

Narcissa: What the hell are _you _looking at?

Snape: STFU.

Voldemort: Tee hee, I'm an evil psychopath.

Sirius: This veil really is nice and velvety.

Lupin: My life is naught but sorrow and pain.

Augustus: I am hawt, all those who look upon me shall love and despair (or something like that)!

Tonks: Kiss me, Remmy!

Rodolphus: Whoo!

Seamus: I do not have any significance whatsoever.

Dumbledore: insert wise comment here followed by a Matrix jump from a rooftop

Moody: CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Peter: There's more to me than meets the eye… or maybe not.

Arthur: I am a god.

-

Okay, okay, maybe not _quite_ like that. The point is, as irrelevant as this may seem, sometimes I just can't make myself work hard on a story and it gets disposed of, for lack of better words. This section is called "The Sketches of Writing" because, like cartoonists and artists, us writers have sketches, too. Maybe not the kind of sketches you're thinking of, but sketches nonetheless. And I figure that this can be a learning experience for everybody as well, so I'll include some analysis for your entertainment.

In this section, you can read the 'rough drafts' of stories that I just don't think made it up to where it should have been, and maybe you can learn a thing or two about writing and the expectations I hold for myself. Also, you can laugh as I tear my failed works into criticized little shreds.

Maybe sometimes you'll see familiar segments of published stories and maybe you'll see something completely new. You never know until you read on.

Enjoy!


	2. A Sickly Oneshot

Okay, let's start off on an easy note. I originally wanted to write a cutesy oneshot about Ron and Hermione and Ron caring for Hermione while she's sick. What a mistake. I ended up with a rather lame part of a oneshot. This story is old, like, ancient old, so I must say I've grown a little in the writing department since those days. At least I hope so. O.O

As you read, you might see my thoughts randomly interjected in a parenthesis along with _italics_. Let's begin at the beginning, as it is the place where most people start stories…

-

**Being Sick is No Siesta**

_(For one, the title is kind of lame. Being sick involves a quite large amount of siesta, actually. It was supposed to be a joke later on in the story but I never got around to it, seeing as this is unfinished.)_

Hermione had not been feeling well at all. In fact, as she sat in Transfiguration with Harry and Ron, she suddenly felt overcome by a wave of nausea. She bent over double, clutching her stomach and closing her eyes, and heard several voices.

_(Wait, wait, wait! Where did the introduction go? Hermione wasn't feeling well and then, poof, the story's already off. Typically I like to give more of an introduction. Clearly I was in a hurry to get this over and done with.)_

"Are you alright, Hermione?"

It was Harry.

(_Brilliant observation, almost Darwin Award-worthy. It probably would have sounded better like, "The voice belonged to a very worried-looking Harry…")_

Hermione nodded and heaved herself out of her chair. She tottered over to McGonagall and asked if she could please take a walk to the infirmary. When McGonagall agreed, Hermione left the room without a word.

_(She did this, she did that. Where's the thought process, my friends? What about something like, er, never mind.)_

Hermione walked down the hall, breathing slowly in thorough her nose and out through her mouth. She looked vaguely at her left arm, where a small lump had formed from a bite she had received earlier in the day. She had not been able to identify the bug, and she wondered if the bite had anything to do with how she was feeling.

_(Gee, I _wonder_. And a bug bite? Lame.)_

As Hermione continued to walk up towards Madam Pomfrey's ward, Hermione held her head in her hands. Why was she in so much pain? The pain in her head was like a throbbing sensation, spiked with a jolt of agony with every step she took. Every sound caused a sort of vibrating in her skull, and it was incredibly painful.

_(This paragraph was okay up until "and it was incredibly painful", where I had to point out the obvious again. Sometimes readers like to figure things out for themselves.)_

She swayed on the spot and clung to the wall to keep from falling over. Everything was spinning at a fast rate, and Hermione was seeing double.

_(There's my overuse of the conjunction "and". Infamous, I tell you.)_

"Huh?" Hermione said wearily as an interesting apparition came before her eyes.

Hermione could have sworn she saw a clown.

_Clowns, in Hogwarts?_ Hermione scolded herself, _No, I must be hallucinating…_

Her stomach gave an almighty lurch and Hermione let go of the wall. She broke into a run with a hand clamped over her mouth, and went into the first bathroom she came across, not noticing that one of her shoes came off while she was running.

The prefects' bathroom.

_(The loo the loo the loo… can I not make an attempt at using lingo?)_

Hermione bent over and retched into the closest toilet, tears forming in her eyes from a combination of pain and suffering.

Hermione stumbled back, unaware that she was even on her feet – her mind seemed to have blacked out. While her mind was struggling to regain control, her legs were taking wobbly steps towards the door. Hermione nearly fell over, but managed to keep her balance. She staggered suddenly to the left, and tripped over the edge of the titanic bathtub. She groaned as she fell, and was unconscious before she hit the bottom.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (or classroom, in all actuality),

_(Oh ha, ha.)_

Ron sat at his desk with Harry, both looking slightly anxious. Ron was actually sweating a little, and wasn't sure whether he should be nervous or not. Finally, he raised his eyes to meet Harry's.

"Do you reckon she's alright?" Ron asked quietly, his voice quivering slightly.

Harry shrugged.

"Dunno," Harry replied, "Should we go and check on her?"

Ron stood up.

"I'll go," Ron said, "You've still got to finish your chair – it still had feathers."

"Right," Harry replied, not bothering to remind Ron that Ron still had a full-grown parrot on his desk.

_(I actually like that part for two reasons: Harry was very on-character, which is always good, and the whole 'parrot' thing is a very Ron thing to do here. Onward!)_

Ron walked up to the professor and asked if he could go to the bathroom. McGonagall fixed him with a piercing stare, as if she knew very well what Ron intended on doing.

"Make it quick, Weasley," McGonagall said sharply, "Just make sure she's alright, then get back here."

Ron's jaw dropped and McGonagall's mouth twitched for a moment as if she wanted to smile.

"Err… sure thing, Professor," Ron said hurriedly, and left the room.

_(Ehh, not sure if that was OOC on McGonagall there…)_

Once Ron had left the earshot of the professor, he broke into a run down the corridor. He began to take the path up to the hospital wing and was almost there when something caught his eye. It was a shoe.

_(What a coincidence, that Ron should happen to see Hermione's shoe. Where I come from, a shoe lying in the hall was fair game. Kickball, anyone?)_

Ron jogged over to the shoe and dropped to one knee. He picked it up and realized that it belonged to Hermione.

_(Gasp! Who would have thought?)_

He looked up and found that he was standing outside the door of the prefect's bathroom. Ron gave the password and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and found something that made his blood run cold.

Hermione was out cold at the bottom of the bathtub.

_(Ha ha bathtub. Sorry, moving on…)_

Ron, ignoring the increase that he felt in his heart rate, dropped himself down into the tub and, with a grunt, hoisted Hermione off the ground. Though Hermione was not incredibly heavy, Ron was not incredibly strong and was glad for once that Harry, unlike the rest of the Quidditch captains, made the team weight train (he'd gotten the idea from his gargantuan cousin, Dudley).

_(Improvise - to compose, recite, play, or sing extemporaneously; to make, invent, or arrange offhand; to make or fabricate out of what is conveniently on hand. Has anybody ever heard of a Quidditch team weight lifting? No? Me neither.)_

Ron gently eased Hermione onto the regular floor and then hoisted himself up as well. Once out of the bathtub, Ron checked for vital signs; Hermione was alive, but she was sweating terribly and her forehead was hot. As Ron pushed her hair away from her face, Hermione opened her eyes halfway.

"Mum?" she asked in a weak voice.

Ron, slightly bewildered, did the first this that came to his mind, "Yes, dear, don't worry; I'm taking you up to your room."

Hermione mumbled something inaudible, coughed, and fell silent once more.

Ron picked Hermione up again as if she were his bride

_(Bow chicka bow wow…)_

and stepped out into the vacant corridor.

"Oh bloody hell, what am I doing?" Ron asked himself harshly, "Oh yeah, Hospital Wing… right."

_(Sorry, the whole 'Mum' thing was rather corny.)_

Ron shifted Hermione in his arms and began carrying her up towards the infirmary. Hermione groaned once or twice, but otherwise remained silent. She turned her head back and fourth and her brows moved, but she did not wake again. Ron kept his eyes firmly on the path he was taking, not wanting to trip or anything that might cause him to drop the girl in his arms. Ron was terrified for Hermione's well being, to say the least, and his fear did not improve when Hermione began to cough manically.

_(I like that sentence there.)_

Ron actually had to stop and place Hermione on the ground so that he wouldn't drop her as she coughed and heaved. Ron touched her forehead again and felt that she was firing up; her cheeks were pink and the rest of her was pale.

Hermione gave a rather spectacular cough, whimpered, and went still again. Ron looked down and saw that he had small pinpricks of blood on his hand, undoubtedly from her mouth. Ron gasped in horror, scooped Hermione up again, and flat out ran to the hospital wing as fast as he could while carrying her.

_(Gasp!)_

Upon entry, Madam Pomfrey was busy tending to a first year who had received a nasty bite from something he was unwilling to identify. The matron looked up and saw Ron standing in the doorway, looking rather frantic and holding a quivering Hermione in his arms. Madam Pomfrey abandoned the first year and showed Ron where to place Hermione down.

"Right here – gently now! She's not a broomstick, you know!"

_(Heh. Broomstick. Wizard lingo…)_

Ron was, in fact, trying to lay Hermione down as gently as possible. The matron took over, leaving Ron to stand awkwardly at the foot of the bed. She bustled about, taking Hermione's temperature and preparing several potions. She handed Ron a wet towel.

"Here," She said hastily, "Put this on her forehead while I'm making up the fever reduction potion."

Ron took the towel and did as he was told, vaguely aware that he could no longer feel his legs beneath him.

_(Dot dot dot dot… the end.)_

-

A/N: Okay, so that's it for the story. It pretty much died after that. As in, that's where I gave up. In case you were wondering, Hermione is fine, of course, and she probably ends up kissing Ron or something, I don't know. I was in a rush and that's what happens when you rush.

So, if you looked beyond the insults I was throwing at myself and the derogatory comments, you might have noticed that I was pointing out a few of the bad sentences and boring patterns, such as 'she did this she did that' etc. And OOC-ness when you're trying to write canon is not good.

Thus, take your time! I noticed that things come out better when I write them down first, so yeah. It's just a helpful hint.


	3. Draft to Draft

A/N: For my next installment, I'd like to post a little something to show how ideas and plots change over time and how one good idea may not seem all that great after a bit of thinking. First here's the beginning to a story I haven't quite finished yet, and the second shot at the same story. look and see how much it's changed since the first draft.

* * *

_-First Attempt-_

Lucius Malfoy would have taken the time to bask in the warmth of the sun had he not been in such a hurry. Perhaps, if Snape's face hadn't been so stony and grave – more so than usual – Lucius would have stopped and enjoyed the wind tousling the hair that did not belong to him. He did not do either of these things, however, and nor did he peer over his shoulder at the Death Eater in Lucius' cell, a Death Eater watching Lucius leave through Lucius' eyes. Hidden on the Death Eater, disillusioned, was a bottomless hip flask of Polyjuice. But Lucius did not have time to feel compunction for the Death Eater that had taken his place, not at all. Something more important than Death Eaters and Polyjuice was happening now; the way Snape had looked at him had told him enough. The need to have Lucius slipped out of Azkaban Prison was enough to tell him that something was dreadfully wrong.

Lucius fell in stride with Snape, both men unspeaking. Lucius doubted whether he would have been able to speak now, with this terrible feeling of dread climbing into his ribcage, nestling between his lungs and settling down for a nice stay.

"Where are we going?" The lips of the Death Eater were cracked and made Lucius feel even more wary. He licked them unconsciously and waited for a response.

"His chamber," Snape replied. Snape was, as Lucius knew, referring to the Dark Lord's chamber. Lucius asked himself why he had joined in the first place now. Had it really been worth everything it had cost him? Snape reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a spare Azkaban jumpsuit, one who's grey and white had not yet blended together from use. He handed them to Lucius, who took them with a carefully steadied hand. "When you change back into yourself, put this on." It wasn't really his clothing of choice, but Lucius, as he knew, was not exactly in the position to be picky.

"What's happening, Severus?" he muttered under his breath, but Snape said nothing in reply. His silence was more unnerving than the loudest shout. "Snape?"

Snape murmured in an undertone, "Just get dressed," and left Lucius alone.

_-Second Attempt-_

Perhaps, if his brain hadn't been reeling and the world hadn't been collapsing around him, Lucius would have taken a moment to enjoy the fresh air and tousling breeze associated with being away from Azkaban. Perhaps, if he hadn't been running down a deserted corridor of a secret hideout, he would have taken a moment to relish in the fact that he was no longer having hallucinations of pineapples and living off food that seemed to stare back at him.

Lucius wished that what he'd heard had been a hallucination.

He had not been here for more than a minute when he'd heart it: the shouts, all of which mingled together and formed a blur in his mind, and finally a shouted Unforgivable Curse. _The_ Unforgivable Curse. Part of him wished that he had not heard what he'd heard, or at least part of it. He wished that the voices he'd heard had not included a voice more precious to him than any other in the entire world. Though, as he reached the large oak door to the Dark Lord's chamber, he knew that neither Azkaban nor insanity could have created such a terrible hallucination.

* * *

A/N: I've written more, yes, but if you plan on reading the finished product I don't want to give away too much to you. Notice, though, how the beginning paragraph has a few of the same lines; I say what Lucius might have done if he hadn't been in a relatively bad situation – this helps to set a proper tone or the story – a tone of urgency and slight fear for Lucius and the situation. Clearly Lucius doesn't know what's going on, and the unknown helps to keep the atmosphere tense.

Sorry this one was so short and lacking in commentary, but the next one should be a bit more amusing for you all. Thanks for reading!


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